


Eye of the Tiger

by MiloBettany



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Fluff, bit flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiloBettany/pseuds/MiloBettany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello?” his rusty voice rumbles through your pillow.</p><p>“Hello Benedict!” you mumble still sleepy, not sure if 10am is to early to bother the man with a date request.</p><p>“Hello darling!” he says now friendlier, the sound of ruffled sheets and squeal of a mattress in the background.</p><p>“I thought we could go for brunch!” you say, his throaty moan a sign that he´s stretching his muscular limbs. “Or you come over, we have a lie in and I serve you in my bed...” he rumbles, the last words underlined with a subtle promise for exotic culinary joys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this should be proof read, if there are any mistakes you can bet these are mine. 
> 
> Hope you like it ^^
> 
> Thank you for kudos and comments

Driving a motorbike in London City is like applying for death wish. If anything can be said for sure, it´s London´s citizens can´t drive. So if you take hundreds of car driver in a hurry and a few biker you can be ensured that it won´t take long till the first accident happens.

Sitting in your car you look annoyed at the ambulance taking care of the latest traffic victim. A biker, how unexpected. From the grim look of the officers faces you can see that the person obviously didn´t survive it.

“To sad!” you mumble as you switch off the engine of your Mini Cooper. You already called your boss to inform him that you will be late this morning. The street is still not cleared yet and two tired looking officers blocking the traffic in their bright yellow coats.

The deep rumble of a bike engine catches your attention as it rolls slowly next to you, trapped between you and the car waiting in the line next to yours. The bike stops and everything is quiet again.

The man sitting on the machine steadies himself with one foot onto the ground, the other resting on the frame of his vehicle.

And the next with a death wish, you think as your eyes flick upon the boots and the firm fitting jeans he wears. The dark blue fabric stretches above his muscular thighs and sets the accents on the firm curve of his cheeks. He wears a black leather jacket, the in-sewed protectors accenting his wide shoulders.

The arms crossed in front of his chest he obviously relaxes, lightly leaned back on his seat, his on the ground resting foot drumming an unknown beat on the pavement. His face is covered by a black helmet, which left his face to the imagination.

Slowly he turns his head in your direction and pauses as his blueish eyes catch your presence. In slow motion he lays his head slop so he has a better sight into your car and also at you.

You wear a tight black pencil, who is slide up so you can sit more comfortable and your legs are free to use the pedals. The silky frame of your stockings on full display for his touchy glance.

His dark blonde eyebrows touch nearly the upper frame of his helmet while his eyes lay sparkly with you on your exposed legs.

His examining eyes wander slowly up your chest, a white blouse the only fabric protecting your breasts from his devouring eyes- As his look reaches the decently covered cleavage of your chest and his look gets something eager, hungry.

Thoroughly examining your neck, his eyes flick directly up to your confused glance. You´re not bothered by his staring. Actually you feel flattered by the unexpected attention. With a quick look he checks the policeman who steps slowly back to the pavement and waves each car one by one further.

With an apologising glance, he starts the engine of his bike and continues his ride without looking back.

Surprised you take a deep breath, not noticing that you´ve held it. This was more than awkward, you think as you change the gear and continue your drive after the policeman waved you through the blockade.

Despite of the stranger on his bike nothing interesting happened the following days.

It is a Friday, when you park your car in front of the small office you work for as the deep rumbling of a slow driving motorbike disturbs the suburban silence. Interested you lift your gaze from your phone as the sound disappears.

In front of you, just a few steps away, a familiar looking long legged man climbs off of his bike, his look fixed at you.

This time he wears an even tighter pair of black jeans and proper biker boots with high shafts, accompanied by the same leather jacket he´s worn a few days ago.

He takes of his gloves and places them on the seat of his bike while he stares at you. With well timed movements he opens the closing of his helmet and slides it up his head, exposing his face piece by piece.

At first you see his lips, those full well curved lips. Crinkled to a soft smile he flicks his tongue upon them, like a promise. Then his lean nose appears, followed by prominent cheekbones. Then the helmet is down and, held in front of his chest, like he´d need protection.

His curly dark hair is a true mess. Pressed flat against his head the other side looks wavy and curly like an afro.

He´s cute, you think as you examine his presence in total. Placing his helmet on the seat he runs his hands through the thick locks, straightens them the best he can before he steps with a self-confident look look closer to you.

“Hey!” he waves. With a tiny shock you hear his deep voice, soft and creamy like thick syrup. “How are you?”

Confused, you blink a few times before you steady your bag on your shoulder, your pencil skirt tightening around your lower body. You answer his expecting look speechless, no clue how you feel about this stranger who doesn´t suit any expectation regarding his hobby to ride a bike.

“I´m sorry! I just...” he mumbles irritated by your silence and dumb look. Considering how to answer his question you blink a few times.

“Sorry! I´m fine!”

What does he want? “That´s great!” he smiles and ruffles his hair with an uncomfortable look in direction of his bike as he wants to ensure himself that he can flee every second.

“I wondered...” he mumbles and scratches his neck with a shy smile.

He must be in his thirties, you think as your eyes examine his pale face with those voluptuous lips.

Kneading his long fingers he cleans his throat. “I wondered if you´d like to have a drink with me.”

Surprised your mouth falls slop. Is he really asking for a date? His cheeks blush as deeper as longer you let him wait for the answer.

“Yeah. Why not!” you laugh, your stomach softly twitching as his face lightens up with a bright smile.

“Wonderful!” he says and you exchange numbers with your promise to call him as soon as you´re free.

His name is Benedict. After you agreed to date him he jumps cheery on his bike and drives his way, addressing you with a thoughtful glance through the visor of his helmet.

Like every woman with at least a bit self-esteem you let him wait for two days till you call him Saturday morning, still laying in bed, the phone on speaker laying next to your head on the pillow.

“Hello?” his rusty voice rumbles through your pillow.

“Hello Benedict!” you mumble still sleepy, not sure if 10am is to early to bother the man with a date request.

“Hello darling!” he says now friendlier, the sound of ruffled sheets and squeal of a mattress in the background.

“I thought we could go for brunch!” you say, his throaty moan a sign that he´s stretching his muscular limbs. “Or you come over, we have a lie in and I serve you in my bed...” he rumbles, the last words underlined with a subtle promise for exotic culinary joys.

His behaviour now matches on no way what you´ve seen when he asked for a date. His voice is sleepy but settled. Every spoken word stimulating the right spots on your body.

“You´ve let me wait like forever for your call...” he whines, his voice an accusing tone, deep and sad. For a moment you really feel sorry. “I was busy!” you say apologetically, your hand petting the curve of your cleavage absently.

“I know!” he says understanding, like he´s already forgiven and forgotten. “And I´m sure you are very in need of a pair of carrying, tender hands who massage your tensed neck and prepares some-low fat, but still delicious, dishes and serves you with champagne and French kisses...” he says seductively, his voice nor soft a low like the vibration of a toy against your sex.

When your fingertips touch something wet you moan reluctantly, the lips pressed together to hide the inappropriate sound coming from your mouth.

He can hear it anyway.

“Playing with your kitten while phoning with a stranger is very naughty, my darling!” he rumbles, the amused smirk audible.

Petting your sex lazily you laugh with a cheeky grin. “You offered a strange woman brunch and French kisses. This is considered as sexual assault!” Growling like you caught him he sighs. “I´m sorry if I offended you in any way!”

“You did not.” you sigh as you slip the tips of two fingers slowly between your dripping folds.

Penetrating yourself with the two digits you breath heavily, eyes closed, imaging him how he lays in his bed, his dark locks messy and a damp.

With a lazy moan he caught your attention again, his heavy breath synchronised to the slow pushes of your fingers against your inner folds.

“I thought about you a lot!” he says slowly, the smack of his lips hunting iced shivers down your spine. “I want to touch you...” he whispers, obviously deep in thoughts. “And I want you to touch me. This is all I can think about since I saw you sitting in your car in those cheeky stockings...”

“I would wear them for you if you like...” you whisper, pressing your eyes shut as all your muscles start to tense, the slow digging of your fingers not enough to satisfy you.

 

“I´d love that...” he mumbles, apparently imagining you wearing lingeries.

“Stop fucking your kitten and come over, love...” he says demanding, his voice now clear and desperate.

Without any hesitation you take your hand from your sex and jump out of your bed.

“Send me your address!” you say before you hang up, halfway in the shower.

As the hot water touches your skin you suddenly realise what you just have done. You promised a total stranger some sort of sexual encounter. For a second you think over the possibilities you have now.

Cancelling the date via text or simply not showing up and putting his number on the black list of your phone. Considering that he knows where you work and could show up there an unsettled feeling spreads in your stomach. Probably you shouldn´t have called him in the first place.

Nervous, you wash your body and leave the shower afterwards. While you rub your body dry you pick up your phone to check if he´s sent you the address already. He has, and more. To the text was a selfie attached. It showed him standing in front of his kitchenette made of dark grey wood and black marble. His soft smiling face in front of a nicely prepared service trolley, loaded with all imaginable delicates. You spot strawberries, croissants, a white porcelain plate with butter and a glass with marmalade. A beautiful white teapot next to two filigree mugs printed with roses on them.

His face looks still tired but his now greenish eyes look sparkly and excited into the camera, the full lips softly crinkled to a smile.

“O dear!” you mumble, thinking about the bigger picture. This was more than odd. You always thought meeting men of his calibre would be impossible. Considering yourself as not attractive or intelligent enough doesn´t mean that you´ve a lack of self-esteem, more a realistic sight at yourself.

You´re everything but delusional. The first thing he saw was your presence, of course he isn´t appealed by your intellect. But you´re either. He is, indeed, good looking. Even when his face doesn´t serves standard expectations about attractiveness.

Getting dressed with a pair of sweatpants and a hoddy you comp your hair and bind it in a pony tail.

Of he wants you dapper dressed and covered in make-up it´ll be very interesting to see his reaction to your natural self. You have no use for someone who just wants to scratch the surface. It has to be deeper than his dick reaches.

Surprisingly he lives very close. You reach his apartment in the first floor of an old house in ten minutes by foot.

Slipping through the garden door you step to the dark green front door, pressing the copper button for the door bell.

First you hear his steps than the sound of the door who gets unlocked. “Hey!” he breaths with a beaming smile, still all messy hair and comfy sweat shirt. His eyes room over your presence, no sign of repel or negative surprise.

“Never thought you´d look so hot in sweat pants!” he mumbles and makes a step aside. Politely smiling you enter the house, his scent a mixture of deodorant and washing powder.

Closing the door behind you he helps you out of your coat and hangs it on a hook at the wall.

“Are you always so silent?” he asks shy, slipping his lean fingers in the pockets of his trousers. “Usually not... This all is just a bit awkward...” you mumble, following him around the corner and into a wide living room with attached kitchen. You recognise the shelves and also the service trolley with now more plates and pots on it, all covered to keep the food warm.

“I´m sorry if I was to... eager...” he says with blushed cheeks, scratching his neck again. Fascinated you follow his lean fingers as they touch his skin, rub upon a few tiny freckles. “Is this your natural hair colour?” you ask interested while stepping closer, pausing directly in front of him, just a few inches between you. 


End file.
